


December

by broadlicnic



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Film, ttss_kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-17
Updated: 2011-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broadlicnic/pseuds/broadlicnic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted at ttss_kink: "The last time Ricki was in dire straits and needed help, he went to Smiley. This time, he chooses to go to Guillam.</p><p>I want to see Tarr breaking in to Guillam's place, hurt and lost. How Guillam will respond, Tarr doesn't know; is up to the writer what happens, whether it's nasty or nice."</p>
            </blockquote>





	December

When Peter gets home, there’s nobody there to greet him. Not anymore. In silence, he hangs his coat and scarf – it’s a very harsh winter – behind the door, stamps his snow covered boots on the mat and tosses his keys onto the table. If he’d been observant, he’d have noticed the wet footprints leading into his kitchen, but it had been a long, rough day and he was cold.

He lights a fire, and warms his hands by it for a few moments. Then he stands up, heads over to the couch, and sits with a newspaper. He should probably boil the kettle and make a relaxing cup of tea, but some quiet voice in his head tells him not to go into the kitchen, to just wait here.

He senses Ricki’s presence seconds later, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He continues to read his paper, listening for the sounds of Ricki’s movements to tell him what mood he’s in. Peter’s six pages in before he hears Ricki’s sigh.

“Sit down,” he says, without glancing up.

For a moment the room is still, but then he hears the pad of Ricki’s feet, feels the dip of the couch as Ricki sits. Peter closes the newspaper, sets it on the table and looks up.

Ricki has a black eye, and a bust lip, but the injuries look at least a day old. There’s something about him that’s different, and Peter remembers the last time they saw each other. Ricki was desperate then. Now he looks as tired as Peter feels.

“I need your help,” Ricki says.

“I imagined so.” Peter tries to keep his voice as monotone as possible, because he’s too curious to risk angering Ricki. Why him and not Smiley?

“I’m in a spot of bother,” Ricki says. “Nothing like last time, I just – I need to hide for a couple of days.”

“So you want me to harbour you,” Peter says, “like a fugitive.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Peter decides to make him wait, because some anger resides inside him, but somebody has already beaten him to the punch-up. The room fills with the torturous tick-tock of the clock on the mantelpiece, and Ricki starts to shift, his fingers tapping against his knee, his eyes darting from Peter to the floor.

“I have spare clothes, if you need them,” he says. “Go get cleaned up and I’ll make you some tea.”

~~~  
The night passes as awkwardly as Peter expected. Ricki roams the house, picking up objects and asking Peter the story behind them as Peter tries to work. He spots one photograph that Peter forgot to hide, and Peter has to lie, saying the man with him is his brother. Dinner consists of sandwiches, because Peter was never the cook and Ricki is a fussy eater. Eventually, Peter tosses a blanket and a cushion at Ricki and heads up to bed.

He doesn’t sleep that night. He listens to the sounds of Ricki shuffling back and forth from the bathroom, the soft hum of the fridge as Ricki raids it for a snack at 2am. And suddenly, his bed feels so empty.

~~~  
He calls Smiley the next morning and explains the situation. George, ever the caring, allows Peter three days’ leave, because “Tarr is still important to us.” Ricki is asleep when while he calls, having finally dropped off somewhere around 4am, so Peter takes the opportunity to run out to the shop for bread, a newspaper, and plenty of beans. While there, he buys three cartons of cigarettes.

Ricki’s still asleep when he returns, so Peter leaves one carton on the coffee table for him, packs away his shopping and sits in the kitchen. He smokes four cigarettes in succession as he reads the paper, just able to hear Ricki tossing in his sleep. Peter considers checking on him – perhaps it’s a nightmare – but that would imply some sort of friendship between them.

When he hears Ricki wake, Peter immediately puts two slices of bread under the grill. The toast is ready by the time Ricki enters the kitchen, shirtless and hair tangled. Ricki fetches himself a glass of tap water while Peter butters the toast, and they sit down together at the table. It’s the kind of domesticity that’s so comfortable, it makes Peter uncomfortable.

“So what have you been up to?” Ricki asks around a mouthful of toast.

“You know, Circus business. Smiley’s in charge now.”

“I went back to Paris,” Ricki says, although he wasn’t asked. Peter lights up another cigarette and listens anyway. “I found out Irina was dead quite soon after that, but I still decided to stay. Then I came back to London, and some people didn’t like that.”

“Is it something we should be concerned with?” Peter asks.

Ricki shakes his head. “No, Britain can sleep soundly in their beds. This is purely my screw up.” He takes a sip of water before clarifying. “I owe some money.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and turns back to his newspaper.

~~~  
The day passes much easier than the last, and after a few hours of television and idle conversation, there’s even laughter. It starts to feel like they are old colleagues again, as if Bill Haydon never happened. After dinner (beans on toast this evening), Ricki cracks open the brandy, and soon it’s approaching midnight and Peter’s too drunk to get up the stairs.

“Just sleep down here,” Ricki says.

“Where?” Peter asks.

“On the couch. We’ll top and tail,” Ricki says with a sly grin. “Unless you’re into-“

“No,” Peter insists, but only sober hindsight will tell him if his denial was too rushed. “Don’t snore.”

~~~  
Peter wakes up to Ricki’s foot pressed against his cheek. He bats it away, and then the light hits him. He groans, and flings an arm over his eyes. His head is pounding, and he feels sick, but he’s wedged between Ricki and the back of the couch. But he can feel the bile charging up his throat, so he pushes Ricki away until he’s half-way off the couch and dashes to the bathroom. When his guts are empty, he retreats to his bedroom, closes the door, and curls up tight on the bed.

~~~  
It’s already dark outside when Peter wakes up, but given the lateness of the year, it could still only be late afternoon. He decides not to look at a clock, because he doesn’t want to know how much of a day he has wasted. His headache has gone, and his stomach is no longer churning, so he leans over to flip on his lamp and reaches for his book.

Ricki is sat on the end of his bed. His eyes are raw and bloodshot, though there’s no sign of tears. In the lamplight, his black eye looks severe, shadows stretching across his face as if the bruise is trying to eat away any remaining healthy skin.

“I lied,” he says. “I don’t need to hide.”

“Where did the bruises come from?” Peter asks.

“I still owe some money, but that’s not why I’m here.”

Ricki kneels beside Peter’s bedside table, his face now illuminated in the light. He raises his hand, lets it hover for a moment, then rests it on Peter’s knee. Peter remains completely still, a trait he seems to have inherited from George.

“I’ve wanted to come back since I first got to Paris,” Ricki says, eyes fixed on his hand. “Nothing made sense anymore. Just wanted to see you.”

“Why now?” Peter hears the quiver in his own voice, curses himself for it.

“Finally plucked up the courage,” Ricki answers. And he smiles. For the first time in so long, Peter sees him truly smile. It hits Peter like a bullet what a beautiful sight that is, and he’d dragging Ricki onto the bed without another thought. Ricki rolls over Peter’s body to lie beside him, and Peter’s hand twists into Ricki’s hair, dragging Ricki’s face towards him.

Ricki’s mouth tastes distinctly of mint, and Peter reckons he’d just brushed his teeth. Whether he did it in preparation for this moment or because of his own hangover, Peter neither knows nor cares. It just convinces him to kiss Ricki deeper, to seek out Ricki’s real taste beneath.

The window is open and the room is freezing, but Ricki’s body is warm pressed against his, and Peter uses his hands to explore every inch of it, his mouth never leaving Ricki’s because he never wants his lips to be away from that skin ever again. They’re still too delicate to even consider having sex tonight, and Peter’s glad because he’s about ready to come with nothing but the feel of Ricki’s thigh pressed against his erection. He ruts against it, and Ricki sucks on his tongue, and Peter lets out the filthiest moan he’s ever heard escape his own lips.

At the noise, Ricki breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t go far. Foreheads pressed together, and a hand over Peter’s jaw, they look into each other’s eyes and Ricki flashes a quick smile before he begins to thrust desperately against Peter’s thigh. Peter has to hold back his own desire, because he doesn’t want to miss a moment of his, and when Ricki’s hips begin to jerk erratically, his lips fall open and his eyes roll back. It’s filthy and it’s beautiful, and Ricki’s head is thrown back to Peter takes the opportunity to scrape his teeth along Ricki’s pulse-point. Peter comes as Ricki’s still lost in oblivion. His whole body feels like it’s vibrating, and a pleasant warming sensation floods over him. Sleep is not far away for either of them, despite having slept all day, and Peter would be quite content with never moving again. He settles in beside Ricki, head resting on his wide chest, arm curled around a defined torso, and for the first time in months, sleeps dreamlessly.


End file.
